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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846256">The Sweet Unfathomed Sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchgraveyard/pseuds/churchgraveyard'>churchgraveyard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Insomnia, Light D/s, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, ishmael.exe has stopped working, soft dom, they’re in love motherfuckers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:27:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchgraveyard/pseuds/churchgraveyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Terry hummed when he reached the last button, sliding the shirt down the Frenchman's thin arms and admiring the sharp planes of his form. The old, scarred lye burns that left him blind also marred his side and were pale with age but left the skin uneven. Terry avoided them, for now, weaving his way through the familiar steps of a different, far more intimate dance.</p><p> "I asked you to come to bed, not to sleep," he said, his voice teasing. He turned Ishmael to face him, looping his fingers through his belt loops, "I missed you."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Sweet Unfathomed Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title is from a sonnet by Michaelangelo called “Nel Dolce d’ Una”</p><p>“It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea<br/>Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide Offence to life and honour.“</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Terry found Ishmael at his piano, playing the same piece he'd been playing for the last 16 hours. At least, he assumed it'd been 16 hours. Judging by the hard lines of Ishmael's shoulders, the slight tremble in his hands, and the deep hollows of his eyes, it had definitely been 16 hours. When he left for the docks yesterday morning, Ishmael had been already up and hammering away at it, the sound muffled by the thick doors of the old house but unmistakable all the same, with the repetitive stopping and starting and the (incredibly endearing) bursts of French expletives. When he'd returned late that evening, the combined strain of twelve hours of fishing and the staple Louisiana sun wearing hard on his body, he'd been greeted by the same melody, if now far smoother sounding. </p><p>He should have called him to bed then, should have carried him up the ancient, creaking stairs and tied him down if need be, but he was tired, and Ishmael was a grown man and there was no <em>proof </em>that he'd been playing all day, he could have taken a break or something and then returned to it, even though he knew his partner like he knew the water and he knew, deep down, that he really ought to go down and get him, so he went down and knocked on the door, and asked Ishmael to come up. He definitely heard a muffled 'I'll be up in a minute’ from the other side of the door, so he went upstairs and took a shower before falling into bed, where he fell asleep before he could bother to wonder just how long it was going to take the other man to make his way to bed. </p><p>He woke up to soft moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains and a pleasant breeze coming through the screen window. The shitty electronic clock beside him said it was just past 1:30, and he sighed when he heard the faint piano coming from downstairs. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, the wooden floorboards prickling with cold against his sleep-soft senses. He padded down the hall, trying to place the melody. Was it Chopin? No, if he remembered correctly, Ishmael was still holding a grudge against him -- for what, though, Terry couldn't say. It sounded like something from a church, so maybe Wagner? Bellini? He couldn't remember the names of any other composers. He reached the door and opened it gently, not wanting to startle the other man. They'd done this dance many times before, and Terry knew the steps well. </p><p>"Are you trying to wear holes in the keys?" he asked gently, ambling his way over to the piano. The workroom, as he called it, was small, formerly Ishmael's bedroom before he moved into the one upstairs with Terry. The weathered piano took up most of the space, just as it had before, but the space the bed used to take up had been handily filled with a dinner table masquerading as a desk, littered with half-written sheet music at various stages of being crumpled into a ball and abandoned entirely. The far wall was lined with bookcases, stuffed to bursting with books and records and a few scattered empty coffee cups. The sole window in the room was papered over, as were much of the walls, with tacked up scraps of melodies and bits of poetry or philosophy that had been stuck in his head lately. Ishmael didn't respond, but the way his fingers stuttered in their smooth rhythm meant he had definitely heard him. Terry hummed along as he draped his arms over the other man's shoulders as he played. The pale man startled slightly at the contact but didn't fight it, something that made Terry's heart swell when he stopped to consider how skittish he'd been in the early days of their relationship. Terry leaned in and nosed the crown of his head, breathing in the faint scent of sweat and shampoo. Slowly, Ishmael's hands slowed, coming to rest haltingly, his fingers still held taut even as his shoulders slumped. It was a moment before he spoke. </p><p>"Hymn of the Cherubim, Tchaikovsky." He said softly, his voice slightly rough from disuse, "I couldn't find a good version for the piano, so I decided to make one." </p><p>"It's for strings, then?" Terry asked, rubbing slow circles on his shoulders.</p><p>"Acapella, originally. I can't make it sound right, I don't know what I'm doing wrong." Ishmael sighed. </p><p>"You can figure it out tomorrow," Terry said firmly, "you'll feel better after you sleep on it." </p><p>"But I'm close, I can <em>feel</em> it-" Ishmael started, pulling away from Terry's grip.</p><p>"You can <em>feel</em> it tomorrow. Come to bed, Moby." Terry was cheating a little bit with the nickname. When Ishmael had drunkenly confessed to him that his mother had, in fact, named him for the Herman Melville character, he had, equally as drunkenly, come up with the nickname to wheedle the other man with. Over the course of their relationship, it had slowly gone from a form of light mockery to a gentle endearment that never failed to make Ishmael's ears turn red. </p><p>A shiver ran up the taller man's spine and he relented, letting his hands fall into his lap. Terry grinned in victory and untangled himself from the other, taking the other man's hand and squeezing it softly. Ishmael sighed heavily and pushed back the bench, getting to his feet. Terry led him into the hall, humming an old jazz standard under his breath. They made their way up the creaking staircase, Ishmael gripping the rail tight, completely blind in the dark despite the glow of the streetlamps coming through the window. He wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, pressing himself against his back, pressing soft kisses into his shoulder as they entered their bedroom. </p><p>"You're still thinking too hard," Terry murmured into his skin, deftly unbuttoning the white dress shirt.</p><p>"I can't help it, I'm not tired," Ishmael pouted, feebly batting Terry's hands away and groaning in halfhearted frustration when Terry proved insistent, "I don't want to go to sleep." </p><p>Terry hummed when he reached the last button, sliding the shirt down the Frenchman's thin arms and admiring the sharp planes of his form. The old, scarred lye burns that left him blind also marred his side and were pale with age but left the skin uneven. Terry avoided them, for now, weaving his way through the familiar steps of a different, far more intimate dance.</p><p> "I asked you to come to bed, not to sleep," he said, his voice teasing. He turned Ishmael to face him, looping his fingers through his belt loops, "I missed you." </p><p>The tall man visibly softened, the normally harsh line of his mouth easing into a smile. Satisfied with his victory, Terry pressed into him, pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Ishmael shrugged his shirt off entirely, teasing at the hem of the worn cotton sleep shirt Terry wore. Barely breaking from the kiss, Terry pulled back to let Ishmael tug it over his head, walking the other backward toward the foot of the bed. </p><p>"Eager, aren't we?" Ishmael asked in between kisses, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of the mattress.</p><p>"I told you I missed you, didn't I?" Terry said, laughing, "I need to make up for some lost time." He leaned in over the now seated man, kissing him playfully and humming when Ishmael started to pull on the waistband of his shorts. </p><p>"Aren't I supposed to be the eager one?" Terry asked, helping to tug the thin fabric down. Ishmael flushed, ducking his head. Terry laughed again and pulled his head back up with a finger under his chin, forcing Ishmael to face him. </p><p>"It's alright, love. Makes my day to have a pretty thing like you look at me that way," he murmured, running a hand through Ishmael's long walnut hair.<br/>
<br/>
Ishmael flushed deeper and bit back a sound in the back of his throat, ducking his head again to put his mouth on Terry. Terry leaned his head back with a groan as Ishmael lapped gently at his head, his hand wrapping around the base, Terry's hand tightening only slightly in his hair. His hips jerked slightly forward when Ishmael took him fully into his mouth, fighting the urge to immediately thrust in. He wasn't lying when he'd said he'd missed the musician. </p><p>With the hand not around Terry's cock, Ishmael had opened his jeans and had a fist around himself. Ishmael started to move in time with his own strokes, finding a steady rhythm and meeting his mouth with his fist on each bob of his head. Terry swore under his breath, still fighting to keep his hips still, "Oh, Ish, baby, just like that. Look at you, love -- you do it so well." Ishmael let out a muffled moan at that, the vibrations around Terry's shaft drawing a groan from the sailor. But Ishmael's response gave him an idea. Tapping the other's shoulder gently to get him to pull off, he reached down and stilled the hand still working his shaft. </p><p>"Would you scoot up for me, love?" Terry asked, his voice thick with desire. The pale man eagerly did as he was bid to, lifting his hips to fully pull his jeans and briefs down to his thighs. Kneeling before him, Terry worked the pants off him fully, admiring the man before him. His long, thin limbs laid out in a graceful akimbo on the white bedsheets, his long, long legs stretched out and his fingers twisting in the duvet. </p><p>"What're you doing?" Ishmael asked breathlessly, pushing himself up on his elbows as Terry ran his hands reverently up and down his shins. </p><p>"Making up for lost time," he murmured in between ghosting kisses up the other's legs, starting from the elegant arch of his foot and working his way up slowly, pausing to nip gently at his delicate ankles pausing to rest his forehead against his knees when he heard Ishmael's breath hitch slightly, "I want to take my time with you, make you feel good. Would you let me?" </p><p>Ishmael dropped back onto the bed with a huff, readjusting his hips and not-so-subtly spreading his legs further apart to try and make Terry <em>get on with it already</em><em>. </em>Terry laughed.</p><p>"I think you would let me. Has anyone ever done that for you? Taken their time? Spread you out all pretty like this, took it slowly?" </p><p>Ishmael shook his head, his hands gripping the sheets a little tighter.  </p><p>"That's a damn shame, to waste that opportunity. I could look at you like this all day, beautiful, all night, too. Keep you here in front of me, just like this, like a fucking painting or something," the long-haired man whined, his hips jerking slightly. </p><p>Ishmael's... 'thing' for praise had always been a kind of nebulous force in their sex life. Terry had always <em>known </em>that Ishmael liked it when Terry talked to him in bed, but he'd always assumed it had more to do with his lack of sight than anything else; It'd taken a long time for Terry, who generally liked to think he was fairly observant, to realize just how much his words affected the other. He'd never really experimented with it before, always too caught up in the heat of the moment passion, but what better time to play with it than when he was trying to draw out their night together? They'd never necessarily talked about it in detail, but he knew that even if none of his partners had ever been violent towards Ishmael, which he tried not to think about because it made him so angry he could barely breathe, no one had ever really cherished him either. Looking at the vision before him, it was criminal, he thought, to take it for granted. He continued his path upward, mixing a few tender scrapes of his teeth against the insides of milky thighs. He reached the juncture of his legs and moved past it teasingly, pressing his nose into the soft skin of his navel. Slowly, he lifted Ishmael's left leg, pressing it to his chest, exposing him more fully. He dipped down, pressing gentle kisses against his shaft and sack before going even further, lapping gently at his hole. Ishmael sounded like he had the breath punched out of him, a throaty yell that caught on his teeth and sounded almost like he was in pain. Terry pulled back slightly, but dove in at the whine above him, Ishmael jerking his hips to try and chase the contact. He tapped gently on the leg still beside him, motioning for Ishmael to lift it alongside his left. He did, pulling both of his knees towards his breastbone and Terry, now with two free hands, grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and worked it underneath Ishmael's hips, rubbing soft circles into the sensitive skin at the backs of his thighs. He alternated the circles with soft pinches, the pale skin flushing under his ministrations. </p><p>Terry took a moment to press lavish kisses to Ishmael’s weeping head before he returned to his work, his mouth tracing star maps and poetry against his lover’s skin, his own insistent arousal fading into a background hum as he focused intently on the man before him, focused on taking him apart piece by piece, one for each moment he’d ever felt alone or afraid. </p><p>Above him, Ishmael moaned deep in his throat, his face and chest flushed a deep red and his brow damp with sweat. He was making little, involuntary mewls and whimpers, trying to stifle them by biting down hard on his bottom lip. Pulling up for only an instant, Terry had sucked a bruise atop one of his angular hip bones and murmured sweetly against his skin, telling his lover just how much he loved to hear him, and all the filthy things he loved about Ishmael’s mouth alongside. Ishmael had wound one of his hands into Terry’s close-cropped curls but stopped trying to hold in his appreciative noises and moans of pleasure. He almost wailed when Terry began to work a finger in with his tongue and tried to grind himself down onto Terry’s face, eventually settling for the aborted jerking of his hips when he realized he was so thoroughly pinned by his partner.</p><p>Terry pulled back, shushing Ishmael's indignant groan when he pressed a thumb against his slick rim, dipping teasingly in and out, but never far enough to give any sort of satisfying stretch. </p><p>"Oh honey, look at you," he said, voice sweet with awe. His dick was a deeper red than Terry had ever seen it, so hard it must have been painful. The tops of his thighs and the crease of his ass were petal pink from the rub of Terry's stubble. "What is it, babe? Whatever you want, I'll give it to you."</p><p>Ishmael squirmed, his eyes glossy and pupils blown, leaving only a thin ring of jade around them. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out were jumbled moans and soft, keening noises. Terry lowered his legs slowly, delicately massaging them to try and ease the flow of blood to them. He made gentle hushing sounds at Ishmael, giving him a moment to catch his breath. </p><p>When Ishmael's breathing returned to a regular, if rapid, rhythm, Terry leaned in to meet him, catching him in a warm kiss. </p><p>"What can I do, sweetheart? What do you want me to?" Terry whispered huskily against the slighter man's lips.</p><p>"<em>I want you</em>," Ishmael choked out, squeezing his eyes shut. Terry cooed at him softly, deciding not to tease the poor man any further. Keeping one hand on his partner’s thigh, he pulled the small bottle of oil from the nightstand drawer, nearly pitching himself off the bed in his haste.</p><p>“I got you, baby. You’re so good for me — waiting for me, letting me take my time with you, letting me make you feel good. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, honey.” </p><p>Ishmael’s dick gave a noticeable twitch at that, and Terry nearly came on the spot. What did he do to deserve such a perfect man in his life, much less in his bed? He ghosted wet fingers over Ishmael’s hole, already slightly puffy from Terry’s mouth, and slipped one in easily. Ishmael arched his back, crying out at the feeling of <em>finally </em>having something inside of him. Terry opened him slowly, murmuring praise and pressing kisses into his stomach and thighs, twisting three fingers just so until Ishmael‘s moans had turned to sighs, his chest heaving and his head thrown back. Gently, he pressed a soft kiss to the edge of the scar tissue on Ishmael’s ribs, watching the other’s face carefully for any signs of discomfort. The thin man stiffened slightly but didn’t say anything, letting out a gentle exhale as he tried to relax around Terry’s fingers. Encouraged by the response, he pressed another kiss to the puckered skin, his free hand smoothing over Ishmael’s rail-thin chest. </p><p>“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Terry whispered, mapping his way up Ishmael’s right side with his mouth. </p><p>He was gentle, didn’t nip or tease at the skin he knew was still tender after all these years. Ishmael was always jumpy about the scar tissue that bloomed down the right side of his upper body, a static imprint of the caustic lye that had left him nearly blind and weakened for the rest of his days. It had taken a long time for Ishmael to grow used to Terry even holding his hand, the combination of raw, sensitive nerves and longtime anxiety proving quite the wall to tear down, but Terry was as patient as the day was long, and Ishmael had known how tactile of a person Terry was and tried his best to accommodate that. They’d done it together, and every brush of shoulders or embrace was flushed with tender pride and warmth, like the rays of the sun flooding the senses with simple, well-worn gold that shined smooth with age and love. Terry knew his partner’s boundaries well, knew that Ishmael was alright with almost any of Terry’s touches when warned beforehand and over his clothes, and might jump slightly at the warmth of his hand but trusted Terry enough to tell him if he didn’t want anything. In the bedroom, Terry knew where to avoid, which places to hold onto that wouldn’t make Ishmael hiss in discomfort or pull away jerkily. He’d learned Ishmael preferred Terry’s hands in his hair than on his cheeks, that he liked it face to face and sometimes couldn’t stand the thought of being held down. Ishmael had learned about him alongside, learned how much Terry loved when he thumbed over a dusky nipple, or buried his nose in his neck and breathed him in deep like he would die if he didn’t.</p><p>“So pretty,” Terry continued in between kisses, “and so gentle, like you’re from another world. I wanted you the minute I saw you, have I told you? I wanted to take you apart bit by bit, tear down those walls you built for yourself, make you happy, make you <em>laugh</em>. Fuck, I knew you’d have a beautiful laugh, just like your voice, fucking made of music, every bit of you.” </p><p>Ishmael let out a warbling moan, nodding slightly to try and let Terry know he was alright, just overwhelmed, uncurling a hand from the sheets and throwing his arm over his eyes, skin slick with sweat and flushed with heat. Terry took his time, his free hand tracing aimless patterns over the other’s chest in time with the thrusts of his fingers, searching and seeking upwards and inwards, Ishmael rewarding him with a breathless sob, both of his hands tangling tight into Terry’s hair and sliding down to his shoulders when he pressed up against that small bundle of nerves inside him. Terry knew they would have to talk about this at some point, but not now — now was just about feeling.</p><p>Terry pulled himself up gently, tracing a bead of sweat with his tongue from the hollow of Ishmael’s throat to his jaw. He withdrew his fingers from Ishmael, cooing at him when he whimpered at the loss, his eyes completely glassed over and his mind fogged with lust. Terry lined himself up and took a breath to steady himself before he pushed in, sliding home in one smooth movement. He could barely recognize the noise he made as his own, drawing Ishmael close to him as he let Ishmael adjust to the stretch of him. </p><p>The furnace of him enveloped him fully, making Terry moan at the hot, tight fit of his walls around him. Ishmael clung to him, wrapping his legs fully around Terry’s waist and his fingers scrabbling for purchase on his back, making Terry jerk his hips and press his face into the left side of his neck, moaning lowly as the pinpricks of pain smoothed down into the fire burning in his gut, hot coals glowing amber like an oil lamp. </p><p>Terry waited, using the last of his will to force his hips into stillness, allowing Ishmael to get used to him, searching for a sign to let him start moving. Terry didn’t know how long it was until Ishmael let out a soft whimper, thrusting his hips up minutely against Terry’s, 10 seconds or a minute or maybe an entire lifetime, but he breathed a sigh of relief and let the last of his self restraint crumble to dust, his right hand planting itself beside Ishmael’s head and leaning heavy on his elbow with his left gripping his bony hip like a lifeline as he started to <em>move</em>, every piece of tension in his body simultaneously releasing and getting even tighter as he thrust into blind, inviting heat. They moved like this, entwined in one another beyond words, Terry‘s vast sea of want shored slightly by the rhythm of his hips snapping forward into his lover. He pushed himself up, planting a messy kiss against Ishmael’s mouth, mumbling breathlessly as he moved, harmonizing with Ishmael’s own small noises, his arms looping around the back of Terry’s neck and holding him close.</p><p>“Ish, baby,” Terry moaned, pressing their foreheads together as he sped up, letting his rambling words fill the space between them, “fuck, I love you. You know that? I love you so fucking much — that’s it, honey, just like that, — I can’t breathe sometimes. I love you, I love the way you feel. Is that it, sweetheart? Right there? You’re so, fuck, so good for me, I bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you? Without me even touching you, sweetheart?” Ishmael moaned at that, pressing his face into Terry’s neck and holding on like a lifeline, meeting every one of Terry’s thrusts with his own. </p><p>“Ishmael, honey, fuck, I’m going to— can I? Inside you?” He asked, <em>begged, </em>breathlessly, his thrusts becoming arrhythmic and haphazard, the fire in his gut burning blue and white with heat. Ishmael keened, nodding against Terry and holding onto him even tighter. </p><p>“I wanna feel you, honey, wanna feel you around me— fuck, without me even <em>touching you</em>, so fucking good, so good and all mine. All mine, sweetheart,”  </p><p>Terry felt Ishmael tighten around him as he came with a wail, throwing his head back and gasping for air against Terry as he fucked him through it, orgasm hitting him like a punch in the gut as he spilled deep inside his lover, his body stilling and then going boneless, Ishmael’s arms loosening around his neck and Terry taking care to fall against his left side, so as to try and not overstimulate his lover. He floated in a haze of light, the warm glow of a hearth kissing a glass of whiskey and refracting kisses over it. </p><p>He was brought back down by the shuddering of his lover’s chest, trembling hands running absently over his back. He started when he heard a wheezing sob above him, lifting himself off his partner and inadvertently pulling out with a jerk, making Ishmael hiccup in discomfort. His mind was racing but he couldn’t make sense of any thoughts, terrified at the thought of having hurt his lover. </p><p>“Hey now,” he whispered, panicked, “hey now, love, it’s alright, stay with me.” </p><p>He made to pull back but Ishmael grabbed him tightly, burying his head in Terry’s chest, his breath jagged and heaving with tears. Terry shushed him softly, running gentle fingers through his hair. When Ishmael’s breathing slowed, Terry detangled himself. “I’m just getting a cloth, I’ll be right back,” he said softly when Ishmael had made a tearful, confused noise. He padded quickly to the washroom, running a worn washcloth under warm water and hurrying back to the bedroom, not wanting to work his lover into another wave of tears. Ishmael sniffed when he returned to bed, running the soft, familiar cloth over the plane of Ishmael’s chest and stomach and wiping the evidence of their passion off his skin, talking Ishmael through his reaching between his legs to gently swipe the cloth over his tender hole so as not to catch him off guard, giving him plenty of time to object or move away. Ishmael didn’t say a word, just pressed himself further into Terry’s chest. Terry tossed the cloth absentmindedly behind him, wrapping his large arms around his lover’s slender frame and listening for his heartbeat to even out. He was nearly asleep when Ishmael spoke, words muffled against umber skin. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I ruined it.” </p><p>“Moby, baby, you didn’t ruin anything,” Terry replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of his lover’s head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” </p><p>“You didn’t,” Ishmael said, laughing softly into his chest, “It was... it was great— <em>more</em> than great.” </p><p>“But you were crying,” Terry said, his voice confused. </p><p>“I know. I don’t know why, I was just...” he trailed off, thinking. Terry didn’t push; Ishmael did this often, would finish an entire conversation in his head before finishing his thought, his mind working through different ways to say what he meant, finding the words that came the closest to capturing the bloom of his thoughts. He scrubbed tears from his eyes, laughing again. “I’m happy. Here with you, I’m so happy. I love you, and I don’t say it enough. I love you.” </p><p>Terry was at a loss for words, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He cleared his throat, “Happy tears?” </p><p>Ishmael nodded against him. “Happy tears.” He looked up at Terry, drawing him in for a kiss. “I love you.” </p><p>“I love you too,” Terry said, and if his eyes were a little shiny, Ishmael didn’t mention it. They laid in each other's arms, listening to the sounds of the city around them, their breathing evening out, and drifting into a safe, dreamless sleep, comforted by one another’s presence.</p>
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